


Receive Of Me

by barbariccia



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, mentions of Sid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 07:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbariccia/pseuds/barbariccia
Summary: "Are you going to end up on your ass every time we meet?"An encounter on a snowy street, and the feeling ofgiving.





	Receive Of Me

"Commune with me," says Fray.

And it sounds so _simple_ , when put like that, but you know it isn't. You aren't privy to the inner machnications of the Holy See of Ishgard, but you suspect _their_ communions are grander than whatever this outcast has planned.

"Okay," you say. Soft, but not trusting. You don't know how there's any space for _trust_ left in you, except you know that Fray won't do wrong by you.

You hope so, anyway.

They explain - slow and halting, a dead giveaway to their memory or lack thereof, of whatever services they might once have stumbled into - that the See considers services sacred. Communion reeks, of course, of dryness and formality. It bleaches fervour from faith, wicks away the essence of emotion.

Emotion is, you are discovering, something Fray overflows with.

They speak of the veritable _feast_ that gets laid out with the kind of trembling passion that means they're holding themselves in check, the same way you do when something exciting has your attention. Golden eyes burn at the memory of _bread_ , simple an offering though it might have been, baked long over holy flame and stretched out to resemble Her three spears, and the way they were painstakingly broken up and passed around. You recognise the next tremor in their voice as pure unbridled _rage_ as they tell you of the crumbs that hit the floor, a waste so extravagant something sympathetic curls in your belly. Maybe you, too, are hungry, or maybe you simply feed off whatever nameless thing Fray is brimming with, a cup to catch the overflow.

When you ask _why_ , Fray just shrugs. "Partaking of Her spears, we hold Her strength within ourselves," they rattle off, as though sermons are carved into the lids of their eyes, as though they can't help themselves, as though they have no choice but to recite them word for every angry word as the blessing comes tripping out. "Load of shite," they follow up. You have your suspicions _that_ part isn't in scripture. "Priests pretending like words have power."

But they do, and you both know that. Words have power insofar as the priests remain priests, remain gliding around the Pillars like sacrosanct spirits, and the poor remain poor, begging for alms or crumbs or anything, _anything at all_.

It is, in Ishgard, much the same as it is elsewhere. You know the hobnobbing of the Ul'dahn elite and the desperate plea of the refugees in their streets. You know the self righteous prayers of Gridanian conjurers and urgent requests of their petitioners. You know the pirates and merchants with enough luck to carve out some of that famed Limsan success for themselves and you know the ones that were unable to eke out even the tiniest sliver of fortune.

You know that it is the same in Ishgard as you know that flame burns bright and that poison begets illness. You know this like you know the wary glances you draw from every white-and-silver clad guardsman when you pass to and fro, like you know Fray knows this.

You know Fray knows this because Fray is looking at you - _into_ you - with those eyes that might pierce steel if given enough time, with those eyes that are silent and screaming all at once, but you know that words alone do not hold _all_ the power. There is strength, after all, in swords.

"Okay," you say again, and your eyes are watering from the cold and from their gaze. "Why do we do this, then?"

You expect something along the lines of _stealing from the See and giving it back in kind_ , but then, Fray does not seem like the sort of person that would share this quiet, heavy intimacy with just _anyone_. The answer is, however, startlingly simple, and you suspect that had you not asked, you would have come to the same conclusion sooner rather than later.

"To nurture the darkness within," Fray says simply, slowly, as though you've been explained this a hundred hundred times already. That might well be the case. "So it can be channeled within battle. It comes easier with practise. The more you mind it, the more power you can draw forth. The more you draw forth-"

"The easier it is to burn?"

Fray goes silent, the interruption obviously unwelcome, and you wonder if they aren't considering turning heel and leaving you to freeze where you stand, in an long-abandoned alley covered in snow. A risky place, they'd said, but rather here first than let the candle within snuff out. Besides, you aren't scared- not of the clergy, not of the soldiers. Too much fear has made you weary, and the weariness has left you in a stupor that feels like it might never end.

It's all rather reckless of you, but what with _everything else_ going on, you can't quite bring yourself to care.

"Aye," Fray murmurs. "The quicker you burn, the more the abyss takes, until all that's left is a shell."

A pair of begloved hands are held out to you, and without thinking, you take them. Beneath the leather, Fray burns bright, you can tell. Perhaps warm, perhaps not, but bright nonetheless. Something of the touch settles you.

"Usually," they start, and you think that voice is both very far and very close all at once. You wonder how many scars they've picked up, if that is why they prefer to present as the total inverse of every priest that walks around. If the holy men are made of snow, then Fray is made of soot, clad head to toe in leather so black you couldn't tell they were injured when you first saw their limp body being tossed back down to the Brume. You think that they might even dab charcoal around their eyes to better hide underneath their helm, or perhaps to cover some unsightly wound. "I'd ask you to push yourself to the limit. But that's not necessary right now," and Fray's voice floats back to you as though it's being carried away on the wind. Even _your_ ears need to strain. "Is it?"

It is not.

Without needing to be told, you know -

 _Strength is pain. Strength is suffering. Strength is sacrifice_.

And _Twelve_ , every step you take is a pain. Every breath you draw makes you suffer. You've had enough of it all - of hurting, day in, day out, eyes tight with exhaustion but mind too alert to rest, of endless, truly _endless_ requests, over and over and _over again_. You have risen to such dizzying heights at the cost of your own self, and now this so-called _strength_ is all that remains of you.

Idly, you wonder what Fray sacrificed.

You stand with them, with darkness beginning to kiss the untended cobbles of the Brume, with your toes going cold in your shoes, holding hands like lovers might, soft and careful, and you breathe.

You feel sluggish. Slow. Like trying to wake from a fitful dream that has you in its clutches too tight, knowing that sunlight yet awaits you but being unable to wrestle free. Like wading through thick mud sucking at your boots with every step. It would be so, _so_ easy to simply lie back and let it bear you away-

So you do.

Fighting it is no option at all. You realise all at once that it has you fast and strong, and you are as caught up in it as a coursing river. Your feet are firmly upon the ground but your head is spinning amongst the stars, and you are tossed into the air like a ragdoll and you can see clearer than ever before, and all the while a feeling like being welcomed _home_ curls tight and bright within your breast. It tastes like the sun and it smells like death and beats strong and sure, and you think yes, _yes_ , for if you were not created for precisely this, then what were you created for at all?

You _listen_ , with every tightly woven fibre of your being, and you think you hear-

 _what_ , exactly?

Not the comforting crackle of the hearth, for you never had even that much, nor the sound of footsteps above or outside, for your Master's home was sequestered safely away and you within like a chick beneath the wing. No, it is nothing of the outside world, it is closer to home, close to your heart, it is the soft snore of a body beside, of-

 _who_ , exactly?

-deep in your bones you know that this is closer than anything has any right to be, this big horned prick who snores, who keeps you awake, whose flame you burn bright and hard and fast for, who you know burns likewise for you, who _hogs the fucking coverlets_ -

The abyss smothers you, and all is black, and silent.

It is the sound of your heart that disturbs you.

Well - it might not be _yours_ , but it's close and familiar enough for you to forgive its trespass, if it isn't. You close your eyes, if they are open, for everything is dark and you cannot tell what's what, and simply _listen_. To the heartbeat, to the flame, to the-

voice?

"Thordan's low swinging _stones_ ," Fray curses, an expert in this, "Are you going to end up on your ass _every_ time we meet?"

You find yourself in the snow. It's _cold_. Whatever warmth was cradling you before - and it feels like eons and seconds ago all at once - has fled. Fray offers you no hand up, letting you struggle alone, just as it always has been, watching with those thrice-damned eyes of theirs. You might swear blind they can see all the way to the depths of your rotten soul and back again.

 _Choke on it_ , you think in a fit of pique, and would give testimony before the good Archbishop himself that Fray's eyes crease like they're smiling.

"Good," they say, and, "Return when you're next ready. You know where I'll be," and that is, apparently, that, for they turn on their heel and are quite content leaving you to beat snow off yourself, fingers frozen almost solid. You think of hot cocoa and fresh loaves, with butter melting into the dough, and of the gnaw of wretched, _desperate_ hunger.

When you leave the alley you espie the spires of the See's seat towering up, up, _up_ as though they mean to breach the heavens themselves, and your spit freezes before it's even hit the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me here: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hummingways) and [Tumblr](http://barbariccia.tumblr.com/)


End file.
